


The Fluorescent Lights, They Burn So Bright

by dedougal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a chill in the air. It’s not quite winter, not even fall, but there was a definite sign that summer is ending and the end of the year is in sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fluorescent Lights, They Burn So Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Based on amazing art by nox_wicked. I was so very very lucky to be able to claim something so atmospheric and wonderful. Thanks bb!

There was a chill in the air. It’s not quite winter, not even fall, but there was a definite sign that summer is ending and the end of the year is in sight. Most people would be getting excited by Thanksgiving and Christmas but all Dean could think of was cold hands, cold hearts. Cold bones that ache.

Sam sniffled beside him, shivering slightly. He felt it too. Dean wished Sam didn’t know what it meant but Sam’s had to grow up fast since Dad…didn’t come back. That’s what Dean has to cling to. They weren’t left behind, they weren’t abandoned. They definitely didn’t run away. They were just lost.

On good days, Dean would believe still. Sam still believed, or, at least, he told Dean he did. But the more Dean thought about it, it was like believing in Santa, the Easter Bunny, Angels. On bad days, days like this, days where food had been scarce and so had kindness, Dean had to believe Dad was never coming back for them and he was in charge. In charge of their life, their liberty and their happiness.

What a joke.

It’s late now, summer sun long leached from the sky, stars poking their way through the street light haze. Cities are easy - were easier. They had garbage cans and alley ways and nooks and crannies where two small boys could hide. Used to be able to hide. Dean wasn’t small enough anymore to be beneath the notice of the other inhabitants. 

Groups of drugged and/or drunk, bored youths roamed the streets here, half-feral. Maybe the parent they had was equally out of it. They didn’t care about consequences and threat. They wanted to feel good, feel entertained. Dean had been their entertainment, dragged out of the pipe he’d stuffed Sam inside, fists and feet, punch, kick, bruise, break. Laugh. They’d laughed. Hyenas. Bitter, curling laughter like smoke rising into the air.

Maybe Dean should hotwire a car, drive them south (he thinks he remembers how to). They could find an empty summer cottage, set up home. And probably freeze to death. In the cities there was at least a chance Dean could find the occasional bit of no-questions-asked work and there were shelters they could risk now and again. Too often and there would be CPS on their tail. Maybe they’d been here too long. Time to move on again, each move making the chance of Dad finding them even more remote.

He shifted. He ached. The cold makes the bruises sharper and sore. Sam let out a soft noise. Dean hoped he’s having a pleasant dream. Dean had seen crazed eyes and a spittled grin when he’d closed his eyes. They’d yelled, told him to scream and beg and it could all be over. They’d called him names, names like whore and cocksucker and fag. Dean had the odd suspicion he’d buried these words deep, didn’t want to admit them to himself. And they burned him like cigarettes when they peeled them out, cut him with them also worse than the edge of rings, of knuckles.

Sam twisted. He’d never been a quiet sleeper, another reason for Dean to stay close and aware. He settled the coat around Sam more firmly and blamed that for not noticing the guy getting close. Dean should have been more watchful. His lack of watchfulness had led to him being jumped. He had to protect Sam, even though this guy didn’t look like too much of a threat.

The guy was older than them, dressed in a suit and a coat and just reeks of do-gooder. Dean tried the blank, flat glare he’s found that works best on people who think they know how best to help them. Mainly by separating them, which would be no help whatsoever. The guy crouched down and Dean realised that he’s not that much older. He stopped, maybe arrested by Dean’s hostile stare, hand half outstretched.

“That eye looks nasty.” His voice was low and rough and Dean wished he still had some ability to trust because it sounds honest and true. “You okay?”

“I’m sleeping rough. How do you think I feel?” Dean learned sarcasm before he could breathe, or so Sam claims. The conversation woke Sam, who blinked in the glare from the streetlight before trying to bury behind Dean. He doesn’t like strangers, especially ones who stare so intently.

“I’m sorry.” That murmured apology was more than Dean expected. “You look cold.”

“S’not that bad.” Another strategy. Never admit weakness. The guy let out a soft huff, a laugh or a question or some thought never to be spoken. He had a backpack and he reached into it, pulled out an old soft hoodie. It’d be too big for Sam but probably warmer than the too small coat he clung onto. The guy flung it at Dean before pulling out another, slightly smaller and throwing it towards Sam. At least he didn’t come any closer. 

Dean was tempted to throw them back all the same.

“What’s this for?” Dean didn’t make a move to gather them up. He’d like to. They smelled like washing powder and indoors. Central heating.

“Donations. I was taking them to the Goodwill for my mom. Looks like you could use them more.” The guy straightened up and walked away. Dean watched carefully but the guy didn’t look back, didn’t stare anymore. He turned the corner and Dean gave him five minutes before he unfurled the hoodies and propped his sleepy brother upright to wrap him up in it. He hesitated, wanting to give them both to Sam, one on top of the other, but Sam pushed the other one at him.

Dean returned to his thoughts.

 

Three weeks, four jobs and one more run in with the gang and Dean had returned to the pipe with Sam. There was a thin trickle of water running down the middle – it had rained two days ago, when Sam had sniffled under his arm until Dean snuck them both into a shelter, early enough it wasn’t full but so late people had stopped being as watchful – but it was still the best shelter he could think of.

“Hello.” The guy in the suit and the coat was there again. Dean squinted up at him. It was earlier than before, the last streaks of the sun still lingering against the tops of buildings. He could see that the guy’s eyes – still weirdly intent – were a sharp blue. They wouldn’t miss much.

“Thanks. For the hoodies.” Dean was wearing his. He had blood on it now but it was dark enough that the guy shouldn’t see it.

The guy shrugged. “I’m Castiel.” He said it as if Dean should know what it meant. Or that it was maybe an excuse or an explanation. Dean bit down on his lip. He was curious. He wanted to know more. But it was dangerous to ask, to engage. People expected answers back to their questions too.

Castiel shuffled on his feet, before he pulled his backpack off his shoulder and opened it.

“You taking stuff to Goodwill again?” Dean felt that was safe enough. He watched carefully. Sam was peering over his shoulder but was hopefully hidden by Dean’s body. Their own backpacks, battered and old looking, carefully selected to avoid drawing attention, were beyond Sam. 

Castiel’s mouth opened and shut a few times. He was going to lie. Dean could recognise all the signs. Then he raised one shoulder and looked straight at Dean. “I was looking for you.”

A bit more rummaging in the backpack and Castiel was bringing out a sealed toiletries kit, like the sort hotels had in vending machines. He handed it to Dean and then pulled out another, followed by a clean t-shirt. He held them out and Dean took them, still trying to work out what to say to this.

“We do okay, Sammy and I.” Dean wasn’t going to follow this guy off the street, or, like, blow him to say thank you or anything. He hadn’t stooped that far yet, despite the temptation on a couple of occasions.

“I want to eat with you in a diner. They won’t let you in like that.” Castiel fastened his backpack and got to his feet, leaving Dean wondering again. This Castiel – weird name, weird all round – seemed to only speak in declarative statements. There was no babble, none of the placating small talk and “tact” that other people employed. None of the insults either, though.

Dean was halfway to nodding before he caught himself. He was blaming this one on the impossible to ignore curve of Castiel’s mouth, plush and kissable. That led to roads Dean tried hard to avoid exploring. “Why?”

Castiel didn’t seem keen on answering, fiddling with his backpack strap and looking at the ground. Then he looked up, eyes pinning Dean against the side of the pipe, unable to do more than take in the blue, blue eyes. “I like burgers. And I like to eat with people. I will see you here tomorrow.” Then he was gone.

Sam stirred against him. “That was weird, right? I’m not just imagining that.”

Dean checked under his arm. Sam’s hat was still pulled down over his ears, keeping his tangled hair out of his eyes. He looked strangely alert, awake and interested. It would good for him to speak to someone who wasn’t Dean. “Yeah.”

“We’re going to meet him?” Sam sank down into his coat.

“Free food, Sam. He’s probably some kind of Bible-nut do-gooder. But we can put up with a little preaching for a burger.” Dean pinned his lips and didn’t let out his desire to see Castiel again – see him in lights where Dean could look and see if his eyes really were that blue, that his lashes were that long and not just some trick of the light. 

Sam huffed out a laugh, sleepy again. “You and burgers.”

Dean felt an ache that had nothing to do with lingering bruises from his beatings. It was as if someone had pinched his heart, stolen the air from his lungs. Just for a moment. His dad used to love the sort of diners and dives that served greasy, calorie laden burgers that smelled divine. Dean would eagerly follow while Sam complained about the lack of vegetables, a worrier even then. Dad wouldn’t even look at the menu for Dean, able to order without consultation. 

Soup kitchens didn’t tend to serve burgers. Stews and, well, soups. Vast quantities of cheap, mass produced slop. Dean was used to it now. But sometimes, in a dream, he could swear he could taste that heavy beef, those onions. Crisp fries straight from the fryer, too hot to lift, to eat, burning his lips in the best way. Dean hunkered down, legs bent over the trickle of water. He could sleep now and stay awake later, ready to watch out.

 

Dean half expected Castiel not to show, unsure exactly of where he and this odd guy stood. He’d used some of his under the table cash to take Sam and himself for showers and he’d shaved. He’d had to navigate around the lingering bruises but he felt he looked less ridiculous. His jeans were mostly clean but his t-shirt was the fresh new one Castiel had handed over. Dean shivered under his dad’s old jacket and waited, foot against the wall.

Sam dug a book out of his pocket, borrowed from a stand at one of the shelters. It was falling apart and Dean wondered how Sam could manage to make out the words as it got dark. Perhaps Sam was just reading to avoid having to make conversation.

It was almost like a date. Dean laughed at himself. He could almost imagine the parallel life he might have led if he and Sam were still with their dad. They would have been in school, which would have been good for Sam. They would probably still be living place to place but at least they would have had Dad’s car to call home. There would have been dates and girls and regular meals, clean clothes. Bathrooms.

Castiel was in front of him before he realised and Dean cursed himself for not paying attention. He was still dressed like he always was, conservative suit and tie, dirty man mac. He looked strangely older. Maybe it was the dark stubble on his cheeks. Dean liked it. It made him look less clean, more grimy and messed up, more like the kind of guy who’d hang around with Dean and Sam, homeless urchins extraordinaire.

The diner was warm. The windows were covered with condensation, making the street outside merge into a candy coloured confection, a fairground of orange and red and white. The waiter looked suspicious of them but let Castiel order without more than raised eyebrows. Dean had flicked through the menu but Castiel had already taken over ordering, bacon cheeseburger for Dean, chicken salad for Sam, burger and milkshake for himself.

Dean tried to ignore the chills climbing his spine. Something was wrong.

Castiel seemed different from the first time he’d handed over the hoodies. He didn’t mention his mom, his family. Instead, between offhand bites of burger, he questioned Dean and Sam, asked about their lives. Asked how they’d become homeless.

Sam relaxed with the attention. He talked about books Dean had never heard of, Castiel nodding in all the right places. Dean used the time to try and work out what Castiel’s game was. Castiel met his assessing stare, eyes wide and blue and Dean fell into them. There was the smell of ozone, burning, like the air before a storm. A memory – déjà vu or a dream or something – seemed to try to fight free from the depths of his memory. It was the colour more than anything, mixed with blinding light and blood.

Dean wasn’t hungry any more.

Castiel waited until Sam headed to the bathroom, until they were alone before he made his move. And the entirety of his move was a moved foot, a shoe, brushing against Dean’s leg briefly and a hand brushing when they both reached for the ketchup. Dean’s breath caught in his throat at even the brief contact. 

Sam poked at his salad when he came back. Dean passed over some of his fries. “You mind waiting here? Just for a moment?”

Sam nodded, digging out the book again and Dean reckoned he’d be safe here, for five minutes. “C’mon, Cas.”

“Cas?” Castiel followed him through the door of the diner and down the block to an alleyway Dean had clocked earlier. Dean ducked around the dumpster. They were alone here, in the dark, and it was even almost private.

“Yeah. Castiel is a bit of a mouthful. Not that I, uh…” Dean ducked his head. He usually wasn’t this forward. But something about Castiel drew him in, made him want to be direct and bold. Maybe he felt they didn’t have time to pussy foot around. “Mind a mouthful.” Dean directed the words to Castiel’s collarbone.

And then Dean lifted his head and pressed forward, too close, mouth missing most of Castiel’s but definitely hinting towards his general desire to kiss him. Castiel didn’t move, standing stock still, possibly from shock or lack of want or something. Dean was already apologising when Castiel unfroze, stepping forward and cupping Dean’s cheek. There was no doubting Castiel’s kiss. It was warm and wet and tender, his lips moving softly against Dean’s, parted just enough, firm. Dean shivered. It was as if another piece of the puzzle was trying to fall into place.

Dean pulled away eventually, aware that they needed to get back to Sam. He was too young to be left vulnerable. Someone would ask questions if they took too long. Castiel seemed unwilling to let go and his thumb traced across Dean’s mouth.

“When did your dad leave? Can you tell me that, Dean?” The question broke whatever connection there had been between them. Dean stepped back, hurt. Why did Castiel want to know that? What was going on? Who was he, really?

Dean turned to go and collect Sam, his heart leaden in his chest, that same familiar pain under his ribs. “Why?”

Castiel hadn’t moved, standing in the middle of the alleyway. It started to rain, lightly at first and then the drops got heavier and heavier. There’d be no chance of finding a shelter bed tonight. Maybe one of the squats would have space enough. Castiel’s voice was a slow, dark rumble. “This isn’t you, Dean. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“That makes no sense, man.” He was angry, furious. But, again, that touch of déjà vu resonated.

Castiel looked at him and Dean was struck by the age old sadness in his eyes. “You’re going to die tonight.”

There was shouting from the end of the alleyway. Sam came around the corner, both their backpacks in his hands. “They’re here, Dean.” Shadows danced at the end of the alleyway as Sam ran past him, caught short by the chain link fence at the far end. A scrape of a blade against the brick work suggested that the gang of boys weren’t going to let him go with a warning this time.

“Pretty, pretty. C’mon pretty.” They sounded drunk and high and ready to cause some serious damage. Dean had nowhere to go – the fence was too high to get over. Maybe he could boost Sam free. Sam. Sam on his own.

“Cas – what happens to Sam? What happens?” Dean was frantic, looking for a weapon, a shield, anything to delay the inevitable, to defend himself and his brother.

Castiel didn’t say anything. Dean looked over to see him flicker, like an illusion or a signal that was fading. “When Dean? I need to know.”

The footsteps came closer. Sam ducked low behind the dumpster and Dean grabbed a brick, readying himself for what was coming. It was going to hurt. “I was twelve. Just turned twelve. February. It was cold.”

Castiel reached out his hand, either towards Dean or someone else and then he flickered out as if he’d never been there. 

 

Dean’s head was aching when he woke, face down on the pillow like usual. He still took a moment to recognise that Castiel was watching him, a dark silhouette against the street lights filtering through the curtains.

“Cas? What…?” Dean shook his head. Then Castiel was there, fingers outstretched, and the headache was gone. “Coulda done with that after a hangover, you know.”

“Those were self-inflicted.” Cas didn’t move, remaining beside Dean’s bed. Sam snored gently behind them. Dean blinked. He had a sudden odd-of-body flash of a memory that was his and wasn’t. He could feel Castiel’s lips on his and he’d liked it and he wondered where it had come from. 

Castiel raised a hand to his mouth as if he was sharing the memory.

Dean pushed himself up, wondering if he could blame all this on a dream, on not being entirely awake. He was close before he allowed himself to think it through, pressing his mouth against Castiel’s. Too hard. Their teeth clashed and nothing seemed to fit together, but then Cas took over, hand coming up to hold Dean’s cheek, position him just right. They were kissing properly and a long stoked fire in Dean’s belly started to burn.

“I’m glad you’re back, Dean,” Cas said. He brushed his thumb over Dean’s mouth, soft and sure, as if he’d always known how to do that. That other memory, pain and darkness and sadness, faded and Dean wondered at himself for kissing Cas, but then Cas was kissing him all over again.

“What’s… the memory? A dream?” Dean pulled away. Someone had been messing with them, again. 

“Demons.” That would have been Dean’s guess. “They killed your father, back before he knew about them. They couldn’t touch you or Sam but it wouldn’t have mattered. Without his protection…”

“No matter how crappy.” Dean wondered if he should step out of the curve of Castiel’s arms or loosen his own grip around Cas’ shoulders. There was the softest pressure as if Castiel wanted to draw him in, kiss him again. Dean went with it, willingly. Then Castiel was kissing him again and nothing else mattered.

Well, except for the fact Sam had stopped snoring in the other bed.


End file.
